


¿Y tu relación con Blanc? ¿Con Zlatan?

by dame5



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, Conflict, Gen, Hiding, Interviews, Paris Saint-Germain F.C., Reflection, Restraints, S.S.C. Napoli, Uruguay National Team, World Cup Qualifiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 22:57:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame5/pseuds/dame5
Summary: March in Montevideo is cold and windy, announcing the arrival of winter. His first breaths crystalize into a wispy curl of a cloud.His frozen breath used to amuse him a child. Gripping onto his mother’s hand, he’d exhale streams of his frozen breath, joking to her that he was smoking. Berta would give a sharp tug and throw him her practicedi-don’t-have-time-for-your-games-todaywarning glare, followed by a tired yawn of, “Quedate quieto, Pelado.”





	¿Y tu relación con Blanc? ¿Con Zlatan?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Radami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radami/gifts).



> Dear Reen, this is for you.
> 
> A character study inspired by [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/BDRUazHkjtn/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=1v5o7yro6alvs) snippet from an interview from March 2016.

_March, 2016_

Edinson had booked a flight from Paris to Carrasco International Airport, Montevideo to land in the early hours of the morning. _On purpose_.

He’s glad, on one hand, to be back in the motherland for the World Cup qualifiers, but he’s also hoping to go unnoticed.

March in Montevideo is cold and windy, announcing the arrival of winter. His first breaths crystalize into a wispy curl of a cloud.

His frozen breath used to amuse him a child. Gripping onto his mother’s hand, he’d exhale streams of his frozen breath, joking to her that he was smoking. Berta would give a sharp tug and throw him her practiced _i-don’t-have-time-for-your-games-today_ warning glare, followed by a tired yawn of, “ _Quedate quieto, Pelado_.”

It’s nice to be home. But, given the mess he’s been dealing with for several months now—he’s dreading the press. If arriving at 1:15 hrs means he can escape it, so be it.

But it’s inevitable.

He’s wearing his red hoodie underneath his favorite leather jacket. The jacket he’s picked over the others so many times, it’s stretched out and worn in just the right places that conform to his shoulders and torso. Yes, even though he’s even dressed down on purpose to not draw attention to himself, he’s spotted walking towards Nando’s car.

“Edi— _Edi_ , ¿nos regalas un minutito?”

Slightly irritated, he shuts his eyes and presses his lips together before he turns around.

He doesn’t know what is it exactly that blew his cover. His hair? His tall, skinny build? It doesn’t matter now. He’s stopped. The camera is rolling and he’s asked again whether he can spare a few minutes.

And in an instant, he regresses to just five years ago. When he was 24, and still playing for SSC Napoli.

He remembers it. Clear as day.

…

 

He’s in his car, driving to morning training with a camera crew following him for the day. He makes a stop, and fans approach his vehicle, asking for pictures and autographs. And of course, he acquiesces to them. A man among this small flock of fans is filming him, and he asks a woman getting her jersey signed if she is going to ask him for a kiss. He gives them all a disingenuous smile, raising his hand to wave and he brings his car window up.

He drives silently for a couple of seconds and then turns, throwing a quick glance to the crew behind him before he turns to the chief interviewer.

“Did you just _see_ that?” He asks.

The interviewer shrugs. He doesn’t know what he’s referring to.

“That guy with the video camera asked that woman if she was going to ask a kiss from me.”

A spasm of anger makes his eyes flare up and he continues speaking.

“If I had said _something_ about it. How _inappropriate_ that was, or if I got _mad_ …he would have caught that on camera and posted it online or something. And everyone would see “Cavani throwing a fit.”

He exhales sharply, and eyebrows shoot up as if they will accentuate what he’s about to say next.

“You can _never_ be too careful.”

…

 

He brings his awareness to the present and swallows hard. He’s 29. He plays for Paris Saint-Germain, though he’s been dropped from the first team. And he’s home. He’s home for the World Cup qualifiers.

So much yet so little has changed—from who he was at 24.

 ‘ _You can never be too careful_ ’ is what keeps him from walking away. He’s already got enough bad publicity in France. The last thing he wants is for his compatriots— _his_ _people_ —to believe the noise and unfair commentary on his character.

He’s aware of the camera filming the side of his face. He wants nothing more than to keep walking to Nando’s car, idling nearby to pick him up. But reluctantly agrees.

It’s going fine. The interview that is. The questions are nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing he can’t handle, or answer.

Then the finger is pressed to the wound.

“And your relationship with Blanc? With Zlatan?”

It doesn’t catch him off guard. He’s just put off by the unabashed audacity of the question. He reprimands that part of him that freezes. He should be used to these inappropriate questions by now.

He smiles to mask everything he’s feeling all at once.

He answers with a question to buy him just a few more seconds to think of an answer:

“Are you all concerned with this here as well?”

Edinson retreats to his thoughts. For months he tried his best to dodge the French press precisely because of that. The speculations surrounding his relationship with his Swedish teammate are innumerable. He turned down interviews, blaming it on his poor French—a _lie_ since he can understand it perfectly and speak it well enough. He speaks French with inflections and stressed syllables that are typical of his hard _rioplatense_ accent. But he speaks it.

Zlatan deals with it in a manner that shuts them all up, refusing to talk or intimidating them. He somehow gets away with his rudeness without getting demonized anymore. His past bad-boy reputation makes what he does now look like he picked up a sense of decency and cordiality. Zlatan has repeatedly denied there ever was a problem, forgetting the fact he practically threw a capricious tantrum three years ago, threatening to go back to AC Milan if he, Edinson “El Matador” Cavani was brought to Paris Saint-Germain…going as far as stating that he will refuse to work with him.

 _Of course,_ Edinson thinks to himself, _How dare they_.

How could Paris sign _another_ world class striker when they had Zlatan Ibrahimović? The _King_ of Paris?

Edinson licks his lips.

“Are you all concerned with this here as well?”

Edinson bounces the reporter a question because he needs just two or three seconds more to think of a diplomatic answer with regards to his relationship with Zlatan and Laurent Blanc, his manager…whom he calls “Demon Lord” behind his back with David, Javier and Salvatore. They are the only teammates who seem to get him when the rest had turned their back on him.

“Of course.” The reporter shoots back. It comes back to him much too quick, like a volleyball dangerously close to touching ground which has him scrambling nervously to get.

“No…”

It’s not the answer he wants to give. It comes out like a reflex, one of incredulity that rumors of the unfolding mess between his teammate and manager has reached his beloved Uruguay…and they were speculating about this just as much as in Paris.

“The world speaks of it. Your _home_ , Uruguay talks about this.” The reporter responds.

It hits him in the gut, and he has to turn away to not let the camera see the grimace on his face.

Edinson runs his hand over his hair, and he laughs nervously before responding.

“It’s _professional_. Professional. The truth is it’s a professional relationship.”

He doesn’t lie and say the relationship with them is fantastic. But he doesn’t dodge the question.

He knows that he can’t say more. He simply can’t unload to anyone, including this complete stranger and speak of the abuses at the hands of coach Blanc. How Zlatan did everything under the sun to make him feel like he didn’t belong. The humiliations he was subjected to by Blanc, and how the management could do nothing to intervene.

That’s what family was for. He can’t even trust his own teammates.

He’s got to choke back on how betrayed he felt when the entire team turned their back to him, save for David and Salvatore. How it hurt when he found out that even Javier himself was straddling between the divide—wanting to be in congruence with the entire team while also staying loyal to him. After all they had been through.

He’s amazed his tongue is still intact. He’s lost count of how often he’s had to bite down on it and say nothing to the worst of provocations.

Maybe one day. One day it will all come out. But now, there is only so much he can say. He just has to lay low and conform to the constraints, honoring his contract and hoping the management will see his worth. For now, he had to hold himself together despite this being the worst season if his entire career. He decides to add one more comment. Except he is going to turn this away from himself, highlighting the virtue of being an Uruguayan. Of being a _Charrúa_. Of possessing the grit and resolve his ancestral peoples were known for.

“The truth is, as a footballer, you have to follow the indications, and as good Uruguayans, we try to adapt to where we are.”


End file.
